


Sometimes old men are right (this is about the one time they aren't)

by kittenmichael



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: (as usual), Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, and luke is 17, as usual, but it took me a shitload of time to write so yeah, but only a tiny little bit though, here it is, i'm actually not that happy about this, please enjoy it, this is basically just an excuse to write lots and lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2450528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenmichael/pseuds/kittenmichael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashton remembers Levinas.</p><p>Emmanuel Levinas believed that the epiphany of a face-to-face encounter is a privileged phenomenon in which the other's proximity and distance are both strongly felt. During this encounter with another, it is impossible to miss the Other's gentleness. At the same time, the revelation of the face makes a demand, a demand one can choose to affirm or deny. </p><p>Ashton doesn't know why remembers this now when he's sat on a couch in their tour bus.</p><p>or; Ashton cheers up every boy in his band and then those boys cheer him up</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes old men are right (this is about the one time they aren't)

**Author's Note:**

> i got this idea in religious education (i'm an atheist at a christian school yay) basically i need to know all about levinas for a test on wednesday and fluff happened

Ashton remembers Levinas. He remembers sitting in twelfth grade's Ethics, bored out of his mind because this teacher had explicitly forbidden him to drum his fingers on his desk (damn you, Misses Parker). Maybe that's why he remembers said man so well, why his philosophy is still etched in his brain even now when he's in a band and he drums for a living (Ha ha, Misses Parker).

 

Emmanuel Levinas believed that the epiphany of a face-to-face encounter is a privileged phenomenon in which the other's proximity and distance are both strongly felt. During this encounter with another, it is impossible to miss the Other's gentleness. At the same time, the revelation of the face makes a demand, a demand one can choose to affirm or deny.

 

Ashton doesn't know why remembers this _now_  when he's sat on a couch in their tour bus. Perhaps it's Calum's face. The younger boy is sitting in front of him, his eyes trained on the phone he clutches in his hand. Perhaps it's because this look _could_  be described as gentleness. Because when he sees Calum's slightly widened eyes, his pouty bottom lip and the way he keeps absentmindedly tracing circles on the back of his phone, gentleness is the first word that comes to mind.

 

And Ashton is very comfortable on this couch. The fabric underneath his bum has warmed up by now and there's a blanket wrapped tightly around him and honestly, he really doesn't want to get up.

 

But Calum’s bottom lip is starting to tremble and he’s rubbing his eyes. There’s something wrong, Ashton can tell.

 

“Calum?”

 

The boy looks up and when their eyes meet, it’s done. His eyes only seem to get more teary upon locking with Ashton’s.

 

“Yes?” He asks after swallowing harshly, obviously trying to hide whatever the hell he doesn’t wanna tell Ashton about. The latter rolls his eyes, finally giving in, and promptly let’s himself fall on the sniffling boy, who lets out an offended huff. He’s not really offended though, Ashton knows, because there’s a small smile taking over his feature’s.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Ashton asks, his hands reaching out to comb through Calum’s dyed locks. He wonders when they started rubbing off on each other like that. When Michael dying his hair meant Calum would give it a try as well, or Ashton not straightening his hair anymore leading to all straighteners disappearing in the bin. He doesn’t really care though, because they’re still themselves (and their different hair styles illustrate that quite nicely he thinks).

 

Calum sniffles again, biting his lip as he looks up at Ashton through his eyelashes. “It’s stupid, really.” The corners of his lips are starting to curl up in a smile and actually, Calum is a lot more comfortable and warm than that lame couch.

 

“Tell me anyway. I wanna know.”

 

The words are muttered into Calum’s neck, shivers running down his spine when Ashton rubs that spot where he knows he’s ticklish and this is just mean okay.

 

“I’m just being dumb and emotional.”

 

Ashton giggled, trying to hold back the period jokes. Instead he wrapped his arms a little tighter around him and with his lips hovering right above his ear he whispered: "Just tell me already."

 

Calum shifts a little underneath him, his hands fumbling behind Ashton's back as he tries to hide his face in his shoulder. His breathing feels nice, Ashton gets lifted up and down in a soothing matter.

 

"I listened to some sad songs."

 

He admits and Ashton giggles again, putting his fingers underneath Calum's chin to lift up his face. Calum complies, albeit reluctantly, and their eyes meet once again. A few tears escaped apparently, making the younger boy look even fluffier than usually.

 

"You're an idiot, Calum," Ashton mutters with a grin, his insides glowing a little when he notices a twinkle in the brown velvet eyes. Now Calum is giggling too and to Ashton it feels like an earthquake because for some reason he's still _on top of_  his best friend.

 

"But I'm your idiot, right?"

 

Queue the puppy eyes. But his lip isn't trembling anymore and his hands are linked with Ashton's.

 

"Of course you are."

 

*

 

Later that day, he finds himself in the tiny kitchen. He has to stand on his tip toes, but after making tiny jumps for a few minutes, he can finally reach the bag of Doritos he's been craving all day now.

 

He holds the bag in his hands as if it's worth all the money in the world (which it kind of is on this bus) and promptly installs himself on the couch. He props his feet up on the coffee table, wrapping a nice blanket around himself that doesn't quite match Calum's warm, glowing skin.

 

All this preparation is essential though. Ashton is about to watch the first episode of the new American Horror Story season. It's airing in the US at 10pm but because of the time difference, he's watching it at 3 in the afternoon. (Which is for the best, perhaps. That clown is fucking scary.)

 

The dark screen finally lights up, some strange creature appearing on the screen he doesn't get to identify before he hides his face in his pillow. Shivers are already running down his spine, goosebumps appearing on his arm as he grasps the blanket so tightly his knuckles turn white.

 

When he's about 5 minutes in the episode, his full attention focussed on the screen, the door to the lounge opens. The loud noise startles him, sending a string of cuss words past his lips. Upon looking up, he discovers Michael standing in the doorway and he quickly presses pause. His eyes dart towards the tv, where Evan Peters is currently frozen mid-sentence, to the bag of crisps on Ashton's lap and to Ashton himself.

 

Ashton's about to speak up when the younger boy turns around, leaving the room without saying a word. Ashton sighs and buries his face in his hands.

 

He saw the look on Michael's face. (He's a lot better at studying faces if they aren't covered in blood and come with additional fangs and two extra pairs of eyes.

 

Michael had looked

 

 _expressionless_.

 

With his eyes dull and his lips pressed into a thin line. No smile, no cheeky comment about the way Ashton was curled up on the couch with his giant hands covering his face. He saw the lounge was occupied and left. Simple as that.

 

Safe things are never that simple when it comes to Michael.

 

Ashton sighs again, switching between the mental image of Michael's face and Evan's which was still frozen on the screen.

 

He's been looking forward to the start of the new season for weeks, watching all the teasers on the official AHS facebook page (and waiting until he was in America to watch some of them because they were only available there). But his finger refused to press play, instead hovering over the button while he had a mental discussion with himself. There’s an annoying feeling gnawing at his stomach, so less than five seconds later the television is turned off and he’s on his way after Michael.

 

He eventually finds him hidden away in his bunk, his face buried in his pillow. Michael doesn’t look up when Ashton opens the curtain, he just continues to suffocate himself with the stuffy air he’s somehow sucking out of his pillow.

 

“Michael?”

 

Ashton calls, huffing when he doesn’t react. He’s about to turn around and stride back to the couch where his doritos are still waiting for him (and curse Michael because he just missed a few minutes by pausing the television and then turning it off), when the boy looks up. His face is still emotionless, but there are tears streaming down his cheeks. They're small and he’s not sobbing or anything, but Michael is upset and that’s enough to make Ashton lift the duvets.

 

Michael scoots away, obviously expecting him to climb in and cuddle with him. Ashton’s not planning any of that though, he pulls Michael’s arm, indicating for him to follow him. With an exasperated sigh, the younger boy lowers himself onto the floor, reluctantly saying goodbye to the warmth of his bed.

 

“Fifa or COD?”

 

Ashton asks. It’s the only thing he says while taking a seat on the couch once again and grabbing two controllers.

 

“You hate video games.”

 

Michael states, his brow furrowed in confusion. Ashton rolls his eyes at that.

 

“But I don’t hate you.”

 

He throws his precious bag of doritos to Michael and pats the spot next to him. After throwing some pillows on the floor (when Ashton’s alone, he fills the couch with pillows to get more comfortable), he takes a seat, muttering something that sounds a lot like _Fifa_.

 

So Ashton starts up the game, preparing himself to get absolutely crushed. Michael is right, he does hate Fifa. And COD. And video games altogether.

 

“C’mere,” he says before pressing play (which seems a whole lot easier without the stupid feeling in his stomach) and Michael leans closer. With a gentle, cheesy smile he wipes the tears away. Michael answers it with an equally cheesy smile before turning to the screen and ruining Ashton with a score of 12-1 (he went easy on him).

 

After two games all that’s left of Ashton’s doritos is an empty bag and the American Horror Story episode has long ended. But Michael is smiling and laughing and throwing pillows at Ashton and the oldest boy realises that he can’t bring himself to care.

 

*

 

It's now past midnight and Ashton is _tired_. He's lying in his bunk with his legs stretched as much as the small space allows.

 

He did absolutely nothing today but his eyes are burning, his eyelids glued together with something so strong he doubts he's able to open them. There's a tiredness in his bones that staples him to the bed. With every intake of breath, his breathing slows down a little and his muscles refuse to do anything that needs more energy than rolling over to face the other side.

 

Ashton is tired and he would be asleep if it weren't for that goddamn _light_.

 

"Luke, turn that off," Michael swears underneath him. There's some sniffling, but much like the pounding in his head the light doesn't disappear.

 

"Go to bed, Luke," he echoes, tiredly rubbing his eyes. He hasn't gotten more than a few hours of sleep every night in the past week and the lack of sleep was taking its toll. His comment is answered with shuffling and the sound of a curtain getting pulled open. When peeking through the gap between his own and faux wall that ends his bunk he notices Luke crawling out of his own. Ashton can catch a glance of his face before he disappears in the lounge, his steps quick yet just as soft as the sound of Calum’s breathing in the bunk opposite his.

 

His eyes are red, even when illuminated by nothing but the soft light of the phone he’s using to find his way, the shadows it creates making the dark circles around his glassy blue eyes stand out even more and reminding Ashton that there are people who don’t get any sleep at all. Luke’s biting his lip so hard he’s sure Lou will be mad at him for it when doing their make-up the next morning. Ashton doubts Luke’s thinking of anything past this very second or the next. His hands are shaking, which explains why the shadows move, making them kind of scary even though they’re coming from a harmless teenager.

 

Ashton closes his eyes for a moment, his eyes enjoying the rest they’re given now that the light has disappeared. Of course, his mind is having none of that. The stupid feeling in his stomach is back, tickling the tips of his fingers and his numb toes and detonating his lungs more and more with every breath he takes. With yet another sigh, he realises the feeling isn’t going to go away anytime soon. Judging by the soft snores coming from underneath him, Michael is already sound asleep, so he is the only one there to go after the youngest member of the band.

 

He silently lifts the covers and throws his knees over the edge of the bunk, trying very hard not to be bitter about missing sleep. There’s a soft glow flowing from the gap underneath the door Ashton uses to guide himself and when he opens the door, Ashton is blown away by the bright light.

 

Luke had actually dimmed the lights, but Ashton is tired and his eyes burning. The boy meets his gaze, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

 

“I’m, I’m sorry. I’ll just, I’ll be quieter, okay? Or I’ll go to, to bed, if you, if you really want me to,”

 

Ashton’s face falls at the sound of Luke’s voice. It’s rough, yet subdued like he swallowed a candle and the fire is hurting his throat and burning the edges of the words he’s trying to say. Ashton wants to scoop the boy up in his arm and pepper him with chaste kisses until his voice goes back to normal and he stops biting his goddamn lip.

 

So he does.

 

He pulls Luke into an embrace, his arms wrapping around him with a softness he found when Calum’s breathing lifted him up and down and Michael fed him doritos after beating him in Fifa. The younger boy is falling apart at the seams. As soon as Ashton’s fingers land on his ice cold skin, a sob escapes his raw throat, shaking his body so intensely Ashton’s first reaction is to squeeze harder.

 

“I’m sorry, I-I-”

 

“It’s okay, Lukey,” he whispers into the soft locks of his hair, the light strands moving when he blows hot air on them. Luke’s face is pressed against his chest and the tears that are now pouring from his eyes are drenching his shirt but this is _Luke_.  For some reason that only makes the tears saltier and before Ashton realises it, he’s tearing up himself.

 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” Even though he says it with the best intentions, the word sweetheart feels strange in his mouth. He barely ever uses the pet name, especially not when addressing seventeen year old boys who are taller than him, but when Luke is falling apart in his arms, drowning in his own tears, he can’t help himself from saying it.

 

Luke only cries harder. He fists the back of Ashton’s shirt, his large hands (which aren’t as large as Ashton’s but still awfully large) getting paler and paler with every second that passes. Ashton frees him from his embrace, stretching his arms and holding him a few inches away so he can inspect him.

 

By now, his trembling lip is bleeding, the blood mixing with the tears. The tears are thick and endless, unlike the ones he’d seen earlier that day. His sapphire eyes are looking at Ashton expectantly with a heartwrenching glint in them. All blood has drained from his face, his skin now a scary porcelain kind of white that makes him look almost translucent in the dim light.

 

Ashton doesn’t know what to say.

 

He doesn’t know what to say or do or how to act so he follows his primal instincts and locks the boy in his arms once again.

 

Luke isn’t sad because he listened to stupid emotional music like Calum or because he’s having a bad day like Michael.

 

Luke is sad because he’s always sad.

 

(Or at least that’s what it seems like lately.)

 

The boy shakes and shudders in Ashton’s grip, his slender fingers grasping the boy’s biceps with a strength that comes from pure desperation. Ashton strains him with a love he wished could fix Luke’s apparently broken heart.

 

They sit like that for a long time.

  
  


Ashton’s lost feeling in half of his body and the other half is trembling from exhaustion, but until Luke has stopped crying he refuses to deprive the boy of affection.

 

In the end it takes him over an hour to calm down completely.

 

It takes him another half an hour to fall asleep.

 

Ashton falls asleep on the couch that night, Luke draped over his chest like a second hand blanket. He can’t see his face anymore, but the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest reveals a feeling of safety and comfort that is worth losing a couple hours of sleep over.

 

Or so Ashton tells himself when sunlight starts peeking through the curtains.

 

*

 

There's a soft finger stroking his arm along with a deep voice waking Ashton from his slumber the next morning.

 

"Ash, you really have to wake up now."

 

Luke is crouching down next to the couch, a guilty look on his face. He can probably tell by his red eyes and the scowl on his face that Ashton is tired.

 

The morning light is burning his eyes in their caskets and his mouth feels dry from all the sweet nothings he'd said the night before. Luke's lip is swollen and the circles around his eyes are just a tad darker today. Despite his exhaustion, he's still up and about.

 

But unlike Luke, Ashton can't handle sleep deprivation, so he turns away from Luke's pout and buries his face in the crook of the couch (which is probably a bad idea seeing as this is a couch on a _tour bus_ ) and let's out a loud groan. Some awkward shuffling indicates Luke's leaving but before Ashton can fall asleep again he comes back with Calum in tow. The latter lifts him up, not even bothering to greet him with a good morning (it never is at 7am).

 

"You can sleep in your bunk, if you like. You'll have to change clothes in the venue though," Calum informs him when he lays him down on the soft duvets. Ashton responds with something that counts as an affirmation if it's this early in the morning and Michael chuckles behind Calum. They leave once they notice he's already half asleep and in his hazy state, he realises a few things.

 

These boys took care of him _without_  seeing his face. There was no need for a demand or a token of his Gentleness.

 

And Ashton knows that sad songs make Calum sad and that Michael somehow manages to suffer from PMS and that Luke is very, very sad. And they know that all these things make Ashton grumpy in the morning.

 

Where is the feeling of distance? Where is the infinite Other?

 

He's got these three boys completely figured out.

 

So fuck you, Emmanuel Levinas, Ashton decides. And fuck you, Misses Parker. Most of the things you learn in school are bullshit anyway.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (i hadn't watched the ahs episode yet when i wrote michael's part)
> 
> (also i don't know if you can pause your tv in america)


End file.
